


Respice, Adspice, Prospice

by shellikybookie



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Lancelot is a Troll, M/M, Pre-Canon, Protective Tristan, Sassy Galahad, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5523764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellikybookie/pseuds/shellikybookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Britannia.</p><p>They have crossed a world to come here, and Galahad has never felt the distance so keenly as he does now that the end of their journey is in sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Britannia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarpedChyld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/gifts).



The first time Tristan speaks to him, Galahad is doubled over the rail of a Roman ship, half earnestly praying for a quick death. He has never set foot on a ship before, and if he has any say in the matter, he thinks, he never will again. The deck is heaving under him and his stomach heaves with it. His only comfort – and it is small – is that he is not the only one. By the number of miserable, greensick faces among the company, both Sarmatian and Roman, he is reasonably certain that there will be no teasing once they have good solid earth under their feet again. Assuming they don't drown before they ever reach Britannia. Looking – and trying not to look – at the churning waves, Galahad counts it a distinct possibility.

Tristan looks more composed than Galahad thinks is fair. He strides easily across the deck, not seeming at all bothered by the ship's pitching and rolling or the soaking sea spray. Envy and resentment battle for dominance and Galahad, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand, mumbles sullenly, "What do you want?"

Tristan is older than many of the other Sarmartian boys – not truly a boy at all, but standing at the uncertain edge of manhood. Of all the conscripts, he has been the most standoffish, disdaining the company of the others and resisting all attempts to draw him into conversation. His answers, when he gives them at all, are terse and unilluminating, and all of them except for cheerful Gawain have long since stopped trying to engage him. Why now, of all times, Tristan should find it in him to be social, Galahad doesn't know, but he wishes the older boy would just leave him to die in peace.

For answer, Tristan holds something out to him. The smell assaults him first, sweet and tartly acidic, and Galahad has to turn his head away as another wave of nausea washes over him. "Eat it," Tristan says, offering him half of a green apple. "It will help."

"No… no…" Galahad shakes his head, and regrets it when his mouth swims with bitter saliva. He grips the rail, wondering if he's going to be sick again.

"It will help," Tristan says again. "Or you'll puke. Either way, you won't have lost anything."

"Except my breakfast," Galahad retorts, but Tristan is unfazed.

"You lost that before we were even out of sight of Gesoriacum."

Galahad finds no argument for Tristan's logic and so, half grudging and half hopefully, he accepts the apple. The first bite is taken dubiously, the next with more confidence when it goes down and stays down. Tristan is watching him and, feeling suddenly self-conscious, Galahad looks away, out over the waves.

Tristan comes to stand by him, folding his arms over the rail. "Look at the sky," he says.

"What?" Galahad asks around a mouthful of apple.

"The water is moving and you aren't. It confuses your eyes. Look at the sky instead."

The sky is grey, full of scuttling clouds and wheeling seabirds. On the horizon, white cliffs rise up from the restless sea. Galahad fixes his gaze on them, and Tristan beside him does the same.

Britannia. They have crossed a world to come here, and Galahad has never felt the distance so keenly as he does now that the end of their journey is in sight.

"Home," Tristan says, and Galahad spits over the rail.

"This isn't home," he says bitterly.

For long moments, Tristan doesn't reply, until Galahad thinks that he has fallen again into his customary silence. When he does speak, finally, it's with a meditative tone. "We're not like these Romans who build in stone. Our homes, we carry with us."


	2. Tirones

The Romans dearly love marching. Galahad watches them sometimes from the top of the wall, filing down the Via Puellarum and back like ants in a perfectly straight line. Everything they do is regimented, ordered to the last detail. They live by their rules and their schedules. Galahad cannot imagine living that way. He thinks he would very quickly go mad. Some days, he thinks he might yet.

The Sarmatian conscripts are not so orderly – a source of no small vexation to the hastiliarius Bastiza, a Dacian veteran of exacting standards and little patience. They are not raw Roman recruits who don’t know one end of a sword from the other, but the gladius and the scutum are foreign to them, and their skills vary widely. Bastiza learned very quickly not to pair them together if he wanted any kind of conformity from them.

The drills are onerous and seemingly endless, and the wooden practice arms are heavy, twice the weight of a real blade. To the Romans, this seems reasonable. To Galahad, it feels like trying to swing a club to swat a fly. Ridiculous. Not for the first time, he wishes instead for a good spear. How quickly he would wipe the smirk from the face of his sparing partner then. And Quintus, as usual, is gloating. He's beaten Galahad down into the dust twice already this morning, and Galahad is sore and seething at his own clumsiness.

"On your knees again?" Quintus jeers. "Why don't you just stay down there, boy? It's where you belong." He would not have said it in Bastiza's hearing, but the hastiliarius is occupied at the other end of the yard.

Galahad judges the distance and takes his own chance.

From his crouched position, he slashes under the scutum at Quintus' unprotected legs and feels immense satisfaction at the heavy thud of wood against flesh and bone. Quintus topples with a shout of surprise and pain, and Galahad is on him then. He lands half a dozen blows with his fists before someone grabs him under the arms and hauls him off. Galahad kicks and struggles against them, and the arms tighten unyieldingly. " _Leave it_ ," Tristan hisses in his ear, and Galahad relents. Tristan doesn't let go.

Quintus sits up, streaming blood from a nose that is probably broken. He glares daggers at Galahad, and Galahad can't find it in himself to be sorry. Not until Bastiza shoulders his way through the little crowd of gawkers the commotion has drawn. Then Galahad's stomach sinks like a stone.

"What's going on here?" the hastiliarius demands sharply.

Both Quintus and Galahad start to speak at once, and Bastiza holds up an impatient hand to silence them. He points to Quintus. "You did this?" he asks of Galahad.

Galahad shakes off Tristan's hold and stands as straight as he's able, chin raised defiantly, despite the angry red flush colouring his cheeks.

"Yes."

"This is a weapons drill, not a battle. This man is your brother in arms." Bastiza pins him with a level gaze. "Did you forget that?"

Galahad's jaw clenches, teeth ground shut against the answer he wants to give. He says nothing.

The hastiliarius sighs when the silence stretches too long. "Then it seems you need to be reminded." He motions for one of the other boys. "Drusillus, see that Quintus gets himself cleaned up. Galahad..."

He knows what's coming, and with all the dignity that he can muster, he goes to stand in front of the training stakes, prepared to receive his castigation. The eyes of the other boys are all on him, some pitying and some reproachful. Tristan's are unreadable.

"Marcus – and you, Tristan – you hold him."

It's only a formality. Galahad makes no attempt to resist. He feels the warm press of Tristan's hand on his shoulder only for a moment before he takes one outstretched arm and Marcus, on Galahad's other side, takes the other.

"Ten strokes," Bastiza says at his back, "to remind you never to raise your hand against a fellow soldier. And so that you don't forget, you will count them. Are you prepared?"

A shiver runs down Galahad's spine and his skin prickles with nervous anticipation. He nods.

The centurion's vine staff cracks down and Galahad jerks against the restraining hands with a muffled grunt that doesn't break past his lips.

"One."

The staff strikes again, drawing a stinging line across his shoulders. "One," the hastiliarius says again pointedly, and Galahad expels the word on a harsh breath. "One…"

"Two."

"Th-three."

"Four."

"F-aah! Five!" Galahad gasps. He can no longer hear the whistle of the vine staff over the pounding of the blood in his ears. His back is aflame, each new stroke a brighter, hotter fire laid over the last. The sixth count is lost in a moan.

It is Tristan's voice, clear and steady, that counts, "Seven."

There is a pause, and then, "Eight," Bastiza's voice joins Tristan's to count the next stroke.

Galahad almost sags with relief. Tristan's hands hold him steady, and he barely feels the last two blows of the vine staff. His breath comes in laboured pants and he is sweating and trembling all over like a horse that has run itself to exhaustion.

When the counting stops, there is silence. Not a one of the boys, Roman or Sarmatian, breathes a sound. "Take him to the medic," Bastiza says with something like a touch of sympathy in his gruff voice.

"I have him," Tristan says when Marcus moves to obey, and the Roman boy falls back. 

Galahad leans heavily against Tristan's shoulder. Walking feels like wading through knee-deep water, more effort than it should be. So focused is he on simply putting one foot in front of the other that Galahad pays no attention to where Tristan is taking him, and he's surprised when they come to the bath house. "I was supposed to see the medic," he says, not because he's eager, but because he doesn't relish the thought of being punished yet again for not doing as he's told.

But Tristan brushes off his concern. "Never mind him. He'll be busy putting Quintus' face back together. All you need is a good soak."

There are a few men in the tepidarium, but they pay no mind when Tristan and Galahad enter except to nod in acknowledgement of their presence. Galahad is embarrassed to find that he needs Tristan's help to remove his tunic, when merely raising his arms causes every muscle in his back and shoulders to scream. Tristan inspects the welts with careful fingers. "Not too bad," he pronounces. "You're not bleeding." He gives Galahad a clap on the back that might have been meant to be friendly. The touch is light, but it's still enough to make Galahad yelp.

"Damnit, Tristan!"

"You'll live," Tristan says without mercy. "Come on. Into the bath."

The caldarium is deserted, and Galahad is grateful for the uncommon luxury of privacy. He sinks gingerly into the bath, hissing when the hot water stings raw skin, but after a few minutes, he feels every abused muscle unknot and he relaxes with a sigh. "Mmn, you may have been right," he tells Tristan, who has stripped down to his kurta and come to sit on the edge of the pool with his legs in the water. It's bad form, but there is no one here to tell them so.

"It's been known to happen," Tristan replies wryly. He has a way of smiling that is all in his eyes, easy to miss.

"I suppose you're going to tell me this is my own fault," Galahad says, but even to his own ears, he sounds more resigned than resentful.

"Isn't it?"

Galahad feels himself flush from more than just the heat. "If you'd heard what he said – "

"Was it true?"

Galahad can't tell if Tristan is being serious. "What? Of course not!" he scoffs.

"Then it doesn't matter what he said," Tristan says bluntly. "You think you have to prove something to these people. The only thing you proved is that they can get the better of you. A broken nose doesn't teach a man respect."

"It might teach him to keep his opinions to himself," Galahad replies mutinously, and Tristan gives a half shrug.

"Or teach others to share them."

"Are you telling me to _behave_ myself?" Galahad asks incredulously, and he's rewarded with a cynical laugh.

"No. I'm telling you to pick your battles. There'll be enough of them."

Tristan pushes himself to his feet. "Now come out of there before you boil yourself. I'll take care of your back."


	3. Picti

This is not the first time they have gone on patrol. They have ridden the road from Corstopitum to Luguvalium, but always within the shadow of the Roman wall which cuts an uncompromising line through the wild countryside. This is the first time they have ever passed beyond it.

Galahad is not afraid. At least, he doesn't think the tension singing in his bones is fear. It's a deeper sense for which he doesn't have a name – the knowledge of his own alienness. He does not belong to this land, where trees grow tall and thick enough to hide the sky, where the call of every bird and the scent of every flower is foreign to him. He feels like a trespasser under the whispering boughs of ash and oak.

Lancelot seems to share Galahad's uneasiness. His eyes rove over the landscape constantly, darting in the direction of every sound. "I don't like this forest," he says, not for the first time since they left the stone-paved Roman road to follow what is little more than a deer track. "Anything could be hiding in here."

They have been sent out precisely to ensure that isn't the case. Between the Vallum Hadriani and the old Vallum Antonini far to the north lie the ruins of Roman forts abandoned when Rome lost the territory to its rightful owners, the natives of this island that they call _Picti_ for the woad they paint themselves with. But the Romans are not gracious losers. Every season, they send out a turma from each fort garrison to sweep back any who come too close to the wall.

"Afraid of Woads in the shadows?" Tristan taunts without malice.

"Maybe we'll be lucky, and they'll mistake you for one of their own," Lancelot shoots back with a grin and a gesture for Tristan's tattoos.

The gesture Tristan makes in return is crude.

But, for all his teasing, Tristan does not take the ever-present threat of the Woads lightly. He is as wary as Lancelot, and he rides ahead of the column, watching, listening. Two miles further on, he draws up and lets his horse fall back in line alongside Arthur's.

"What is it?" Arthur asks lowly, and Tristan says, "Listen."

Arthur does, straining for any sound but the rustle of the wind through the leaves. "I hear nothing," he says. From another commander, the words might have been scornful, but Arthur trusts Tristan's senses as surely as his own, trusts that the silence has spoken to him.

"Nothing," Tristan agrees. "No birds, no squirrels."

Tristan's meaning is clear. "They're here."

The word passes quietly down the column. They are being watched. On either side of the beaten path are dense hazel thickets that gather gloom. Every turn of a leaf or shiver of a branch draws Galahad's eye, and every shadow becomes a man in the trees. "What are they waiting for?" he snaps when his nerves finally get the better of him.

"You in a hurry?" Bors quips, but his horse dances under him, sensing his tension. In the trees, the Woads have the advantage, and they know it.

"Do we make a run for it?" Galahad asks.

Arthur's response is doubtful. "They won't let us reach open ground, if they can help it."

"Damn these trees," Lancelot curses, even as Tristan says with dry equanimity, "Then let's hope they can't."

But the Woads seem to think they have deliberated long enough. The first arrow flies, grazing past Tristan who sways in his saddle to avoid it, and he answers it with one of his own, sure of his mark.

"Ride!" Arthur cries. "Make the bastards break cover!" 

At his command, the knights spur their horses, plunging down the narrow wooded track under a sudden hail of arrows. Bors' horse goes down with an arrow in its neck, and Bors goes down with it, having only just the time to roll out from under the thundering hooves of Galahad's horse coming behind. Galahad wheels around, but Dagonet is already there, and he pulls Bors up behind him. "Keep going!" he shouts as another arrow whistles overhead.

Galahad leans low in the saddle and breaks for clear ground. He can hear the Woads behind him, now, shouting and rattling their spears, and he has no attention to spare for anything else. He dashes from under the shadow of the trees like a diver surfacing from deep water, with a gasp of relief. Bolstered by the heat of the sun on his back, he turns to meet the forward rush of the Woads as they break from cover with a roar, and already the other knights are doing the same. Bors drops from the saddle and charges on foot, swinging his axe with a ferocious cry of, "Rus!" that is taken up by the others. And then the two forces clash, and Galahad's world contracts down to only the man in front of him, and the next, and the next.

He rides down an archer who takes aim at him, and another falls to Galahad's sword. The Woads may have lost their advantage, but they are not defeated yet. The thrust of a spear makes Galahad's horse shy and rear, and he is thrown from the saddle. He lands hard on his shoulder and rolls, scrambling to regain his feet just in time to dodge another jab. Mounted, he was above the chaos of the battle, but down on the ground, he feels it pressing in from all sides. His sword lies out of reach in the grass where it fell. He no longer has the advantage of reach, and his only option is to close the gap that gives it to his enemy.

Galahad dances back and back again as the Woad presses the attack, but when next he makes a slashing sweep with the spear, Galahad grabs for the shaft. The crossbar slices into his palm, but he catches and holds, trapping the weapon, and then it is a contest of muscle. Galahad is a boy of sixteen struggling against a man full-grown, but desperation gives him strength. He hauls back on the spear with all his weight and drives up with his dagger. It slides in under the Woad's ribs. Hot blood gushes over Galahad's hand and the Woad makes a choked sound that doesn't have the breath to be a scream. His hands clutch for Galahad's, for the dagger, slipping on his own blood. His eyes meet Galahad's, wide with incomprehension. He folds, and his weight bears them both to the ground.

Galahad heaves the man off of him with a cry. For a moment, he lies stunned and unmoving, merely to reassure himself that he is still breathing, before he staggers to his feet. He hears the trill of a blackbird, and becomes aware only then that he does not hear the sound of men fighting. He looks up to see Tristan jogging towards him.

Tristan takes in the sight of him, the blood soaking his clothes and staining his hands. Tristan's gaze shifts to the dead Woad and back. "His?" he asks.

Galahad also turns to look, and stares dumbly. The dead man stares back, unseeing.

"Hey… _Hey_ , look at me." Tristan's hand is a warm and reassuring weight on the nape of his neck. "Are you hurt?"

"No… Yes. I… I hurt my hand…" Galahad responds in a daze.

Tristan checks his hands. They are covered in so much blood that it's hard to tell how much of it might be his own, but it is sticky and beginning to dry, while his lacerated palm still bleeds freely. Tristan curses the wound, the Woad, and Galahad's carelessness. "Hold it out flat," he says, and it is Galahad's turn to curse when Tristan pours a measure of his posca ration over the cut. The diluted vinegar burns like fire, but it washes away the blood and the wound is clean for a moment before new blood wells up again.

Tristan tears a ragged strip from the hem of his shirt to bind Galahad's hand. He's not gentle, but he is quick and his hands are sure. "How did you do this?" he asks.

"I grabbed the spear," Galahad answers, and when he says it, it doesn't sound like such a good idea as it did at the time.

Tristan seems to be of the same opinion, because he says, "Why in the name of every god would you do that?"

"… I dropped my sword. When my horse reared and I fell. I didn't have anything else, and I… I had to kill him," Galahad replies slowly, testing the truth of each word as he speaks it. He'd done only what he had to do, so why does it leave him with such an uneasy feeling? This is not the first man he's ever killed… but it has never been so close, never so personal. He's never seen death in a man's eyes before.

Tristan has not let go of Galahad's hand. He holds it clasped in both of his, and right now, Galahad feels no desire to pull away. Tristan's grip is warm, not chill and slick with blood. His callused thumb brushes the back of Galahad's hand along the edge of the makeshift bandage. "They'll take you with them, if you let them," he says at length, and Galahad gets the sense that he means more than the enemy's spear.

To Galahad, Tristan has never seemed at odds with himself, the way he so often feels. Tristan is sure and unhesitating, pragmatic to a degree that has seemed callous and even frightening to Galahad at times. Now, he wonders what it has cost Tristan to be so. He grips Tristan's hand, ignoring the twinge of pain as torn flesh flexes. "I don't intend to," he replies firmly.

Tristan expels a breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He lifts a hand to tousle Galahad's curls as though he were just a boy, and his touch lingers just a moment. "Pick up your sword, and let's go find your horse," he says. "He will have gone down to the river."


	4. Sagittarii

"Drop your shoulder back," Tristan says, for what seems like the hundredth time, and Galahad makes an aggravated sound.

"How many times are you going to say the same thing?" he asks peevishly, but Tristan is implacable.

"Until you listen."

Galahad almost retorts, _I am listening_ , but the ache in his shoulders speaks otherwise. Not that he'll give Tristan the satisfaction of knowing it. He sighs heavily. "Show me again."

Galahad is not an archer. He can draw a bow well enough – or he would have said so before – but he doesn't have the patience for the discipline. Tristan is forcing him to learn many new things, patience among them.

Tristan had insisted on teaching Galahad himself because, he said, he'd not yet seen a Roman archer (he used the term with heavy sarcasm) who could hit a wall at twenty paces. Galahad hadn't seen why either of them of them should trouble themselves – he to learn or Tristan to teach him – but when he'd said as much, Tristan's answer had taken him aback.

"If you're going to hesitate, you had better give yourself the space to do it without getting yourself killed," Tristan had said.

Galahad might have taken offence at the implied criticism, but he had been struck by the realisation that what had happened on the patrol still weighed on Tristan's mind, long after Galahad himself had let it go.

And so he'd agreed.

Tristan is a demanding teacher, but no more so of Galahad than he is of himself, and Galahad feels a warm glow of pride at every expression of Tristan's sparing praise because he knows that it has truly been earned.

Tristan nocks and draws, holding the position for the space of a breath so that Galahad can see the tension flow from his shoulder to his back, and smoothly into the release. He looses three arrows with the same meditative deliberation, and Galahad watches, appreciating the controlled grace of the motion. It's only when he looks to the target and sees that Tristan has clustered all three of his arrows within a hair of touching Galahad's own that he says, "Show off."

Tristan grins unrepentantly, knowing that Galahad's competitive pride will spur him to do better next time. And he does. His next four shots are grouped together more tightly, and Tristan doesn't have to correct his form once. "Good," Tristan says with warm approval, and Galahad grins, feeling his cheeks flush with pleasure. Satisfaction makes him forget the ache of overworked muscles and the blisters on his hands.

His obvious delight makes Tristan chuckle in amusement. "Go and get your arrows. That's enough for today."

When Galahad comes jogging back, Tristan inspects each arrow carefully, and when he has satisfied himself that they are all in good order, he returns them and his bow to the quiver. He makes a show of spreading out his arms and stretching his back. "I could use a bath," he remarks.

"Gods, yes," Galahad says, and Tristan shoots him a sideways glance that makes him hurry to clarify, "Me too."

It is sheer bliss just to sit and soak in the hot water and let all the tension run out of their bodies. Galahad rotates his shoulders, trying to work out the remaining knots. "Stiff?" Tristan asks, and when Galahad nods, he says, "It will get better. The muscles will get stronger. Turn around."

"Why?" Galahad asks, but he says, "All right, all right," when Tristan just gives him a look. He hears the disturbance of the water and feels it lap higher up his back as Tristan approaches, and then the wet heat of Tristan's palm pressing lightly between his shoulder blades. He bows under that gentle insistence, folding his arms on the marble lip of the bath and letting his head rest on them.

"Relax," Tristan says when he feels Galahad tense in uncertainty. His hands smooth down the plane of Galahad's bowed back, warmed and softened by the water, and Galahad remembers another occasion – remembers Tristan's careful hands rubbing soothing salve into the angry welts left by a vine wood switch, the air humid and heavy with the scent of rosemary and lavender. He relaxes under the touch.

Slowly, methodically, Tristan's hands work the stiffness from Galahad's back and shoulders until he feels as fluid as the water, aware of every muscle, not for how they pain him, but for how deliciously they do not. He feels such a drowsy, spreading contentment all over that he is aware Tristan has stopped only when a hand comes to rest on the exposed nape of his neck and Tristan says, "Don't fall asleep."

"Mm-not," Galahad replies. He raises his head, a little dizzy with the heat, and half turns, and Tristan is right there, so close that Galahad's eyes can follow a droplet of water that drips from his hair and runs in a little rivulet over his collarbone and down, until it is caught in the hair on his chest.

He can't say which of them moves first, not because it is desperate or hurried, but because each reaches for the other, and it is not hesitation that draws the moment out before their lips meet. Kissing Tristan is not like kissing the girls who smile at him in the canteen. His beard scratches softly against Galahad's face. Intrigued by the sensation, he reaches up to touch it, enjoying the sound that Tristan makes when he tugs ever so slightly.

Tristan breaks the kiss, and Galahad's hitched breath of protest almost draws him into another. He closes his eyes and tips his head back as though he is praying for strength, and he takes a slow, deep breath in and out before he speaks. "I wanted to do that," he says, and Galahad answers in the same half entranced tone, "So did I," as if Tristan does not already know.

"I want to do it again," Tristan says, and Galahad leans in the barest fraction of an inch, inviting, but Tristan only strokes his thumb over the pink plushness of Galahad's bottom lip. "But I won't. Not right now."

 _Or I might never stop_ , Galahad thinks, and he doesn't know if it is the tail end of Tristan's sentiment or his own.

He is grateful, after, for the merciless cold-plunge of the frigidarium.


	5. Amantes

It almost happens so many times.

Gawain has begun to look at them askance for how many times he has come upon them just moving apart from each other. And this is, Galahad thinks, another reason to bless Tristan's sharp senses. He is not an easy man to catch unawares, though Galahad has managed a time or two with a questing hand under the table during briefings that dragged on far too long.

Tristan's touch has become a frequent comfort now, but one that increasingly edges towards provocation when privacy is the rarest of all luxuries.

The night it happens, Galahad can't sleep, though he could not say what prevents him. The barracks are quiet, save for the occasional rumbling snore from Bors, and that, they have all long since conditioned themselves to ignore. The choice was between that or smothering the man in his sleep some night.

In the bunk next to his, Galahad can just make out Tristan's sleeping form by the ruddy glow of the banked brazier. He listens to the rhythm of Tristan's slow, even breaths until his own match them. They breathe as one. From her perch by the foot of Tristan's bed, his hawk, Arima, ruffles her feathers and raises her head with a soft, whispering whistle.

Galahad folds back his blanket and sits up. Every movement takes on an almost dream-like quality for him, but he knows that he is awake by the chill of the stone beneath his bare feet when he rises. He can tell that Tristan is, too, before he reaches the side of the bed. He knows that Tristan is looking up at him, without needing to be able to see him clearly. "I'm cold," he whispers, because the brazier has burned low and he's left the warmth of his own bed.

He hears the quiet creak of the bed frame as Tristan shifts to make room for him. There is no room to be made for two men in a narrow camp bed, but they find it anyway. Tristan drapes his arm over Galahad and the blanket over them both. "Warm now?" he asks softly, next to Galahad's ear, and Galahad twists within the close confines to face him instead.

"Not yet," he answers, the words becoming a kiss almost before they are spoken. It is an indulgence just to feel the full length of Tristan's body pressed against his own, and Galahad savours it, tangling their legs together to bring them just that little bit closer. Tristan is loose and languid with lingering sleep, and his hands roam over Galahad's body without intent, simply enjoying the freedom to touch and be touched, and to trade unhurried kisses. Galahad can feel Tristan stiffening against his thigh, and he rocks his hips, seeking friction, pulling a shuddering sigh from the man.

Tristan's hands skim up underneath Galahad's tunic to caress his thighs and encourage the motion of his hips, and Galahad bunches the soft wool of Tristan's kurta up towards his waist, wanting to feel them bare against each other. He can't prevent the breathy moan that escapes him when Tristan grips his cock and strokes slowly, calluses rough against sensitive skin. "Shh…" Tristan whispers against his lips, because even cocooned in this intimate darkness, they are not alone. Their friends sleep only feet away.

Galahad bites his lip to keep silent as Tristan strokes them both together, but soon they are kissing again, and Tristan swallows the soft, needy sounds that Galahad makes. He rolls Galahad underneath him, moving their bodies together with slow, rolling thrusts, and Galahad hooks his knees behind Tristan's to give them both more to work against. The bed frame creaks under the stress of their movements – an unmistakable and incriminating sound – but they could not stop now if they wanted to. Tristan's breath is coming in harsh pants and his thrusts are gaining speed and force. They are both so close. 

Tristan makes no sound when he comes. His breath catches hard in his throat as every muscle draws taut, straining for his pleasure. Galahad makes a thin keening sound, needing, so focused on his own release that he has no more thought to spare for the sleepers. Tristan seals his palm over Galahad's mouth belatedly, and they both freeze when Bors snorts and mumbles, turning over in his bed. They remain still for long seconds, listening, but Bors does not stir again and Tristan breathes a gusting sigh of relief into the crook of Galahad's neck.

Galahad squirms, rubbing himself against Tristan's belly, still achingly hard and wanting. Tristan takes him in hand again, and it is only a matter of moments before he is coming hard, teeth digging into the meat of Tristan's palm, still clamped over his mouth. "Sorry," he breathes when he can speak again, but Tristan only shakes his head, using a corner of his blanket to wipe the mess from their skin. Galahad feels for the ridges of teeth marks with his fingertips. At least he hadn't broken skin.

"That will be interesting to explain in the morning," Tristan murmurs, but he sounds more amused than anything.

"You could say your bird did it."

"With her teeth?"

"Oh."

Tristan runs his fingers through Galahad's tousled curls in just the way Galahad has seen him stroke Arima's feathers to soothe her. "Go to sleep," he says.

"Here?" Galahad asks, imagining the scene should the others awake in the morning to find his bed empty and Tristan's overly occupied. But Tristan winds a possessive arm around Galahad's waist and tucks the other man's head beneath his chin.

"Just for now," Tristan answers, his voice already drifting softly towards contented sleep.


	6. Fides

It has been raining for four days – a constant, cold and miserable drizzle – and the persistent bad weather is starting to fray the tempers of even the native Britons born to this gloomy little island. Those fortunate enough not to be standing watch find things to occupy them indoors, close to the braziers.

Galahad and Gawain are playing knucklebones in the barracks, and Lancelot is playing with them, which is why they are wagering assēs instead of sesterces. Bors and Dagonet, with an amphora of wine between them, are providing occasional advice and commentary, and the game is getting lively. "Come and join us," Galahad calls to Tristan who is sitting only a little apart, occupied with some project of his own – a piece of horn – which he shapes patiently in between feeding bits of rabbit liver to Arima. She is perfectly capable of feeding herself, but it pleases both man and bird that he spoils her this way. There is a reason why her name means "one half of a pair".

"Later," Tristan replies, preoccupied with smoothing an edge.

"I will have taken all their coin by then," Lancelot says with a taunting grin, to which Tristan only shrugs.

"Not much incentive for me to play, then, is it?" He tosses another bit of raw liver to Arima, who snaps it up eagerly, and then eats one himself.

"Tristan, that's disgusting," Gawain says, and his tone is almost resigned, as though he knows he has no hope whatsoever of reforming the man. But he says, "Look. Galahad is making that sorry face of his. Come join us. I can't bear to look at him, otherwise." That earns him a shove from Galahad, but it is half-hearted at best. Especially when Tristan relents. He makes a space for himself at the table between Galahad and Lancelot, and Dagonet passes him a cup of wine.

"Good," Galahad says. "Maybe now my bad luck will attach itself to you instead."

He reaches for the knucklebones, but Tristan stops him.

"Wait." Tristan holds up his finished carving, and Galahad recognises it as an archer's thumb ring. It is not unlike the one that Tristan wears himself, but it is finer, the horn striated beautifully light and dark and polished to gleaming translucence.

Tristan holds out his other hand, then, for all the world as if he's asking for Galahad's. Galahad is intensely aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on them both, but he gives his hand into Tristan's.

Tristan slides the ring onto Galahad's thumb, snugging it just over the joint. "It fits," he observes. And it does, Galahad thinks, like it was made for him. It was, he realises, with a skip of his heart that makes him feel at once pleased and foolish.

Lancelot chooses that moment to remark conversationally, "You see, Bors. Tristan has given his lover a ring before you did."

Bors nearly chokes on his wine while the others laugh, and even Galahad, despite his flaming cheeks, can't entirely help it.

Tristan's smile is hidden in his cup.


End file.
